


say the word (i'm yours)

by Engineer104



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Blood and Injury, Childhood Friends, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Enemies, Non-Graphic Violence, Promises, but no fantasy element for once, you know...eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: Days under siege drag on, and the only thing that ends Lance's tedium is a captured enemy spy.Or:  Lance meets Pidge on the opposite side of a war after years apart and remembers who his real enemies are.





	say the word (i'm yours)

**Author's Note:**

> usual thanks to [Rue](https://rueitae.tumblr.com/) for her suggestions when she beta read. this fic would not be the same without her help
> 
> and now for the drama...a purely self-indulgent "childhood friends to enemies to friends to probably-lovers-but-not-quite-yet" AU ~~because i'm a sucker for the "childhood friends to enemies to lovers" dynamic~~ , but i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it!!

Lance is, in a word, _tired_. Weeks entrenched in a castle besieged leave him weary in body and bored in mind; pacing the walls and staring with a healthy dread at the enemy soldiers milling about building their siege engines only provides so much entertainment.

They wouldn’t all be stuck here if Prince Lotor would stop rejecting the enemy commander’s every desperate invitation to parlay.

“We’ve plenty of food and supplies to wait them out,” Prince Lotor told Lance last time he tried to press the issue over a week ago. “They’ll either grow impatient and storm the walls or my father will send reinforcements for a counterattack. Mark my words, Sir; this won’t go half as poorly as you fear”—a slow, unpleasant smirk curved his lips—”not when their first attempt ended with their commander’s son imprisoned in my castle.”

Maybe not, but Lance’s stomach twists unpleasantly every time he so much as hears mention of Prince Lotor’s most valuable hostage.

He’s the reason the troops camping beyond the walls have yet to mount another attack, and Lotor knows it. The instant a single enemy breaches their defenses is the instant the commander forfeits his son’s life.

So they bide their time while Lance curses his station in life more each day; why wasn’t he born a stable hand or a spoiled princeling like his conniving commander and why did he not refuse Lotor’s offer of a knighthood that feels more worthless by the day? There’s no glory to be had defending a castle - no glory in serving a bastard like Lotor - from an enemy army that refuses to besiege it!

Lance sighs as he leans against the wall, considering a way out of this. He longs to return home to his family’s lands, but the longer this siege drags on…

What if there _is_ a way to end it fast?

“You know, Hunk, maybe we should just sneak out at night and treat with the Duke ourselves.”

Hunk overtly glances around, scanning along the wall. “Why don’t you say that a little louder? Prince Lotor might not have heard you.”

Lance rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Let him,” he grumbles. “I could end this siege without lifting my bow and Lotor can go back to his father’s comfortable castle on the coast.”

“Oh?” Hunk’s eyes narrow. “And what special insight do you have that Lotor doesn’t?”

Lance swallows his shame and, conscious of any other troops patrolling the wall, leans towards Hunk. “The Duke is a more ethical man than our own dear commander,” he mutters, “so I know that he’d honor any deal we made with him.”

Hunk frowns, as if considering. “I see…but if you go through with this, what makes you think he’d give you the chance to explain yourself?”

Lance glances over his shoulder, towards the heart of the castle…towards the dungeons. He licks his lips, contemplating his words, and says, “I know—I _knew_ his—”

“Sir Lance!”

He spins towards the newcomer’s thundering footsteps, eyes wide and…well, perhaps this is the salvation from tedium he’s looking for. “Ezor?” he greets Prince Lotor’s courier. “What’s going on?”

She halts in front of him before offering a shallow, half-hearted bow, one of her usual mocking smirks flitting around her lips. When she stands upright, the smirk is gone, but she announces, “An enemy spy was found attempting to infiltrate the castle’s walls.”

Lance quirks an eyebrow; that’s…all? “Why are you telling me?” he wonders. “His Highness usually hands those over to…you and Zethrid.” Bile rises at the back of his throat; their methods of interrogation are unsavory at best, but he has yet to find the courage to protest them.

“Prince Lotor thinks you’d be better suited to speaking to this one,” Ezor tells him. She shrugs, as if she too can’t tell him what, exactly, her commander is thinking charging Lance with the task, and offers, “If you find her difficult, I will gladly assist you.”

Lance stiffens, not a little suspicious. “Oh…I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” he tells her while he plasters a smile onto his face. He waves towards the stairs that wind down to the courtyard. “Let’s go see what I can do.”

Ezor leads him from the wall and into the bowels of the castle, into the dank, dark dungeons. As she grabs a lit torch, he exchanges a glance with Hunk, who stares back with wide, confused eyes before shrugging. What’s so special about this new captive that Prince Lotor thinks _he_ can get any information from her?

But the deeper they travel into the dungeons, past cells of prisoners both high and lowborn, the worse Lance’s gut twists.

Maybe he should’ve cut ties with Lotor - never mind that his family’s lands were among the first swallowed by his father’s conquest or that he’s duty-bound to follow him - long ago, maybe he’ll still have a chance to right any wrongs he committed - be a hero for the _right_ reasons, be one with the liberators rather than with the conquerors - but for now—

“Here we are,” Ezor cuts into his thoughts, halting before a barred off cell and inserting her torch into one of the wall sconces.

It’s one of the better furnished cells in the dungeon, complete with a cot against one wall and little else. A slight figure perches on the cot’s edge, face hidden by shadows, but at the sound of their approach they stand and step into the light.

Lance’s breath catches when he takes in her scowling, angry face - and remembers.

“Pidge,” he breathes, because he forgets himself, because seeing her is a kick to the gut and a punch to the teeth…but why should it be? Her father is the one besieging the castle, her brother a hostage beneath it, so of _course_ she’s here too.

She’s just as daring and impetuous as he remembers; what other young _lady_ would have the nerve to sneak into her enemy’s fortress?

“I can tell from the look on your face you understand why His Highness requested that you handle this one,” Ezor observes, but he barely hears her, so focused on her, on _Pidge_.

They were friends as children - his father served hers…he should’ve served her too - but he hasn’t seen her in years, not since she was a girl hiding books in her skirts and he a boy who wanted nothing more than to fight and win grand battles and court a princess. He mightn’t have recognized her either if not for how familiar her anger is, her light brown eyes flashing like a feral cat’s in the torchlight.

But does she know _him_ too?

“I demand to see Prince Lotor,” she hisses with all the venom of one of Ezor’s knives. Her gaze flits from her before finally swiveling to Lance and widening. “Lance? What’re you—” Her hands grip the bars of her cell as she frantically demands, “My brother—is Matt all right?”

Lance only stares at her, his mouth dry and heart pounding in his ears. Even in faint torchlight he can tell how much she’s grown since he saw her last, her cheeks not quite as round, her height not as minuscule (though still not past his shoulder), her frame slight but undeniably feminine even in the shapeless shirt and simple breeches she wears.

How different she is now…so how different must she find him?

Ezor sighs theatrically before resting a hand on her hip and leaning against a bar. “The lady asked you a question, Sir Lance,” she says.

Lance barely hears her, too transfixed by the minute changes in Pidge’s shocked expression as her lips form the words, _Sir Lance?_

It takes Hunk digging his elbow into Lance’s side for him to swallow and say, “Matt’s safe and healthy, Pidge. He’s housed inside the castle as Prince Lotor’s…guest.”

“For now,” Ezor adds brighter than the situation demands. She crosses her arms, an awful smirk on her face, and says, “It’s not too late for you to turn her over to me, Sir Lance.”

A trickle of fear runs down Lance’s spine…and not a little anger. He shoots a glare he hopes burns her to ash and retorts, “No. I’m talking to her alone.”

Ezor glances from him to Pidge, and for one awful heartbeat he thinks she’ll deny him. But she shrugs and says, “Who am I to interfere with the way a dutiful knight does his work?” She rests a hand on Lance’s shoulder before raising a ring of keys for him to take. “Just remember who your liege is.” Her footsteps recede down the echoing hall.

The way she says _dutiful knight_ \- a mockery, a threat - sends an unpleasant shiver down his spine. He watches her leave, but before he can turn back to Pidge Hunk grabs his elbow and tugs him a few paces away. “What?” he demands.

“Nothing, just…” Hunk rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve never seen you struck dumb like that, so”—he pats Lance’s cheek—”be careful, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Lance snorts. “I’m just chatting with an old friend, so what stupid thing can I get up to?”

Hunk levels him with a skeptical look before he sighs and says, “Good luck.”

When he leaves, Lance is more or less alone with Pidge, so he’s quick to unlock her cell door and step inside.

He doesn’t expect her palm striking him across the face, leaving a sting on his cheek and his eyes blinking away stars. “Pidge, what the—”

“You son-of-a—”

“Pidge, stop!” He catches her wrist before she can slap him again, but she thrashes, her foot connecting with his knee and almost buckling him. “Quit—”

She stills abruptly, sagging in his grip, head bowed and shoulders sagging. “Let me go,” she mumbles.

“Pidge—”

“Let me go, Lance!”

He drops her wrist and steps away from her, giving her as much distance as he can in a cell this small. His heart races in his chest, breath short and at a loss for words as he watches her pace like a cornered animal.

At last he finds his voice enough to ask, “What are you doing here, Pidge?”

He regrets his words immediately; it’s a stupid, obvious question when he knows her brother is Prince Lotor’s hostage.

The withering glare she shoots him tells him she agrees. She crosses her arms and says, “I could ask you the same thing, you damned traitor.”

Her words pierce his chest, twisting like a knife and more damaging than her backhand, but irritation and an old hurt make him snap, “I’m here to keep my family safe, something yours couldn’t do when Zarkon took our lands.” His heart pounds in his chest as tension - her fierce eyes on him, his own glower - fills the cell and they wait for it to snap. “You know how he is, don’t you?” Lance sneers. “It’s either surrender or die.”

_(_ _“For every day that you do not surrender, I will slaughter one of your family.”)_

Pidge’s gaze falters ever so slightly, some of the stiffness escaping her shoulders, but she comes no closer. “You’ve been fighting against my family,” she tells him, as if he doesn’t already know. “My brother…my father… _me_.” She inches towards him, nose wrinkling in distaste, and spits, “Some friend you are, _Sir_ Lance.”

Her using the title Lotor bestowed on him stings worse than her hand slapping across his face. But he’s carried this guilt with him for years - almost since he last saw Pidge face-to-face - and refuses to be cowed. He snorts and says, “We were just being…what was that word you used so much every time you tried to talk me out of doing something you thought was stupid?”

She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “Pragmatic,” she says, “and you’re _still_ doing something stupid! My brother was your friend too! What happened to your loyalty?”

Her question is so direct any reply he can muster sticks in his throat. _I_ _’m keeping_ my _family safe,_ he can say, even a weak, pathetic, _I_ _’m siding with the winners._ But with the awful betrayal and heartbreak in Pidge’s eyes, he can’t.

And she knows it.

Pidge turns away from him, shoulders trembling. “Y-you always wanted to be a hero, didn’t you, Lance?” She doesn’t look to see him nodding when she continues, “How can you be one with Zarkon’s army? You know what he and Lotor are doing.”

_(_ _“We raze the town.”_

_“But Your Highness, they surrendered!”_

_“My father’s orders were clear:  if we meet any resistance, we destroy everything. Only then will the people depend on us.”)_

Lance reaches for her - God, he knows she’s right - but his hand falters before he can touch her slight shoulder. “Pidge…”

“Did you let _Lotor_ knight you?” Pidge snaps. Torchlight shines off her eyes - off unshed, angry tears - as she crosses her arms against his feeble attempts to reason with her. “That was—you promised you’d let _me_!”

_(_ _”I charge you to protect people who can’t protect themselves and all the animals in the forest…and to stargaze with me past bedtime every night!”_

_“That’s not how your father says it!”_

_“Well, I’m the one knighting you, so I choose the—”_

_“Ah, Pidge, watch where you’re pointing your sword!”_

_“Sorry, sorry! Now I dub thee Sir Lance; stand so I can kiss your forehead.”_

_“Can’t we just skip that part? Besides, you’re short enough you can reach from there.”_

_“Hey!”)_

Lance pinches his eyes shut when her voice breaks on _promised_ , the memory fresh in his mind, but what can he say to defend his choices to her that he hasn’t already?

“Just get on with your interrogation,” she says in a tone that betrays no emotion. “I’ll make sure to scream when you torture me.”

And that finally strikes a nerve, so Lance snaps, “Is that what you think I’m about to do?”

“How else are you planning to impress your new liege?” Pidge retorts scathingly. She again pivots to face him, gaze hard and fingers curled into fists. “You want numbers and troop movements and to know if we’re expecting reinforcements?” She snorts, but in the faint light Lance can tell her eyes are rimmed red. “As if holding Matt isn’t bad enough for us…”

Her defeated tone makes his chest tighten and stomach twist in a way her accusations didn’t. “Then what can I do?” Lance wonders. He takes her hand before he can think better of it, and when she glances up at him, wide-eyed in surprise, it gratifies him that she doesn’t immediately pull away.

At least until her shock wears off. She tugs her hand from his grip and mutters, “Like you haven’t already done enough.”

“I can…I can at least convince Prince Lotor to let you see Matt!” Lance offers, growing desperate. He has to make _something_ right, worthless gesture or not.

Something softens on Pidge’s face, but she looks no less cheered by that prospect. “So he’ll know I failed to free him?”

He hates how dejected she sounds; he prefers her defiant and angry, because at least then she has something like hope.

Maybe he can…give her some? He _owes_ her - for the sake of their old friendship if nothing else.

Lance presses his lips together, licking them before saying, “What if I…convince Lotor to free Matt?” He was of half a mind to do it himself this morning anyway, wasn’t he?

Pidge bounds in his direction, her fingers fisting in his tabard while wild hope enters her eyes. “I-I—you’d do that?”

“I—” His breath hitches, startled by how close she stands and how _sudden_ , but he grasps her hand and meets her gaze…and nods. “I’ll do anything I can for your family, Pidge.”

Pidge holds his eyes for all of a heartbeat before she sighs and lets him go. “Why should I trust your promises?” she demands. “And why should I trust Lotor will honor them?”

Her lack of faith pains him almost as much as any other hurtful words they’ve exchanged, but he knows she’s not wrong. He plasters a reassuring smile onto his face and says, “I promise I’ll make it right anyway.”

* * *

“No.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not,” Lotor cuts Lance off before he can air his protest. “You do know the purpose of a hostage, Sir Lance, do you not?”

Lance schools his expression to keep the natural scowl from his face, but he can’t help narrowing his eyes, irritated. “I’m not an fool, so yes, I do.”

“Then you understand why we cannot relinquish either of the Duke’s children?” The corner of Lotor’s lips twitch into an unpleasant smile as he leans back in his high-backed chair. “It truly is a boon that his daughter favored us with a visit.”

“I understand,” Lance grumbles, “but maybe if you just _talk_ to the Duke—”

“I know she is an old friend of yours.” He steeples his fingers, elbows balanced on the armrests as his gaze darkens. “Rest assured she is safer as my hostage than she would be in the Duke’s encampment once my father sets his sights on them.”

“Your Highness, Duke Holt _offered_ to surrender if—”

“His days are already numbered,” Lotor tells him. He rests his chin on his hand, looking more and more bored with the conversation. “He may surrender if we return to him his children, but he won’t relinquish the control my father demands. Besides, I’m sure you’ve noticed that his daughter is…comely enough.” He grimaces and rolls his eyes. “She can be married off to one of my father’s most trusted men as a reward for his hard work.”

Bile rises in Lance’s throat, a shiver traveling up his spine as fury grips him. “So she’s just a bargaining chip to you?”

“That is what it means to be highborn,” Lotor says with a sigh full of mockery. “Not that you would understand, I’m sure.”

Lance swallows his anger - it wouldn’t do to lose his temper and stab his own commander in the neck - but retorts, “I understand that she’d never let you force her into a marriage.” A scathing smirk curves his face, pleased with his own logic. “She’d make your father’s ‘trusted man’s’ life a living hell.”

Lotor hums, a hint of amusement playing about his lips…and not a single bit deterred by Lance’s words. “I disagree. You know firsthand what a powerful deterrent a family in peril can be, do you not, Sir?”

Lance’s jaw sets, fists at his sides trembling, but he demands, “Can’t she at least see her brother?”

“So they can plot behind my back?” Lotor snorts, waving a dismissive hand. “You may think their house capable of honor - don’t give me that look, Sir, I know your family once served them - but they’re too crafty by half.”

“But that’s why she _delivered_ herself in the first place!” Lance snaps.

“She’ll have her touching reunion soon enough,” Lotor promises with a shrug. “For now, I fear she’ll have to be patient.”

“Then have her moved somewhere more—”

Lotor stands so abruptly Lance shuts his jaw with a click of his teeth. He glowers, angrier than he’s looked since Lance approached him, and points past him towards the entrance to the hall. “I’ve had enough of your arguments, Sir,” he says. “Leave my presence and resume your duties; we will not speak of this again unless _I_ ask.”

Lance stiffens and scowls, his anger and irritation and _frustration_ with the situation barely spent. But he’s not so naive he thinks he can push Lotor any further.

So he spins on his heel and stalks away, shoving his way through the heavy hall doors and muttering under his breath, “I’d like to see him and his pretty hair spend a night in the dungeons…”

“Who has pretty hair and is spending a night in the dungeon?”

Lance jumps when Hunk speaks up, jerking around with an irritated retort on his tongue until the fight drains from him.

What’s he supposed to tell Pidge now? That he failed to convince Lotor to grant her a simple boon?

He scrapes a hand down his face and mumbles, “No one.” Except maybe Pidge, he adds to himself. Her curly honey hair _is_ pretty; he always liked the feeling of running his fingers through it whenever she let him braid it, and the way it frames her round face—

“I assume Prince Lotor rejected your request,” Hunk interrupts Lance’s embarrassing trail of thought with a raised eyebrow.

He rubs the back of his neck - why is his face so warm? - and nods. “Pidge will probably skin me alive with my own knife when I tell her.”

And he’ll deserve it.

Lance shoves away his shame, preferring anger instead, and continues, “I’ve never liked Prince Lotor, but now he seems even more of an ass than usual.”

“Not that I disagree,” Hunk says in a very deliberately low voice as they walk around a cluster of soldiers passing a wineskin between them and lounging in the castle courtyard, “but you _really_ need to keep some opinions to yourself before it gets you - and _me_ \- killed.”

Lance barks a laugh that’s probably a touch too sarcastic to be convincing. “I can’t make anymore mistakes if I’m dead, Hunk.”

Hunk overtakes him, stepping in his path and crossing his arms, gaze landing on Lance with all the menace of a man as bulky as he is. “You can’t fix the mistakes you did make either.”

“Well, seeing as I already broke my promise to Pidge to make things right—”

“What exactly does she mean to you?” Hunk wonders.

That question, somehow, startles Lance more than Hunk’s act of intimidation. He stares at him with wide eyes, jaws flapping as he searches for an answer before saying, “W-we were friends as children. My family were her family’s vassals until”—he swallows the acid in his throat—”Zarkon forced us to bend the knee to him.”

_(_ _”The children will die first if you do not accept my terms.”)_

“I grew up at their castle”—Lance leans against the wall, clutching at his roiling stomach—”I was her father’s page. I trained in arms with her brother—”

_(_ _”Come on, Lance! Pidge can hit me harder than that!”_

_“Quit calling me ‘Pidge’!”)_

“—I played in the mud and snow with her, and I taught her how to fish and catch frogs.” He smiles, chest warming as he loses himself in memory. “I learned more about sums and history and science from her than I did from any of our teachers.” He scratches at his nose and laughs. “Once I wove her a flower crown—”

_(_ _”I crown you…Queen of the Daisies and Empress of the Frogs! Love live the queen!”)_

“—but after she wore it she broke out in hives so bad she refused to speak to me for days after that.” A sigh escapes him, and he’s not so deluded to think he doesn’t long for those simpler days, when Pidge scorning him for a week was the worst thing that ever happened to him. “I…even promised I would let her—”

“Were you betrothed too?”

Lance straightens and smacks Hunk’s shoulder, though his ears and cheeks burn and his heart skips a beat. “Of c-course not!” he scoffs. “Pidge is the daughter of a _duke_ ; my father could barely afford my armor, so who am I to be worthy of—of _that_?”

_(_ _”According to Mother, I’ll have to marry a stuffy duke or earl when I’m grown.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because that’s just how it is, she said. I’ll live in his house—”_

_“Can I come with you?”_

_“What?”_

_“I’ll go with you! After you knight me, obviously, so you won’t be alone with your stuffy duke.”_

_“I…I think I’d like that, Lance.”)_

Hunk rests a hand on his shoulder. “You make yourself unworthy by being too much of a coward to tell her you failed.” His lips then curl up into a smirk. “Also, thank you for confirming my suspicion. Now, if only there was a way to learn if she feels the same…”

Lance shrugs his hand away and rolls his eyes. “That was a long time ago, Hunk,” he says. “We don’t—we’re not the same people we were.”

We’re not children, he means, naive enough to think they’d be friends forever.

How melancholy the thought, making his heart sink deep into his stomach.

“You’re still not a failure, Lance,” Hunk reassures him with a kind smile. “She’ll understand that you tried - I’m sure she understands why you’re here—”

“She thinks I betrayed her family.” He buries his face in his hands and groans, “And I _did_.”

“But you’re still determined to fix things, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Lance concedes, lifting his head and nodding, “but how the hell am I—” His eyes widen, realization gripping him. His heart hammers against his ribs, a pulse of anticipation in his ears. He flings an arm around Hunk’s shoulders and asks, “Do you remember what we discussed earlier today?”

“Remind me,” Hunk says.

Lance steers him out of the courtyard, treading the familiar path around the castle and towards the tunnel that leads into the dungeons. “We’re sneaking Matt Holt out of this castle,” he pronounces lowly, “and we’re taking Pidge with us.”

* * *

Hunk tries to dissuade Lance, but as soon as the words crossed his lips his mind was made up.

He _would_ free Pidge and Matt even if it’s the last thing he does.

Hunk split from him at the entrance to the dungeons, eager - and fidgeting - to see through his part of the plan. Now Lance braces himself to face Pidge again, to pledge his loyalty to her family - to _her_ \- because he knows he won’t be returning to the castle.

(He’s not so naive to think Prince Lotor will take him back - nor does he want to.)

He finds Pidge where he left her, pacing what little space she has in her small, dark cell. But she looks up at the sound of his footsteps, her eyes wide and with a hopeful smile on her face.

“Matt?” she asks.

Lance shakes his head, but before her face falls - before she can fling more accusations at him - he says, “I have something better in mind.”

“What—”

Lance crosses an arm over his chest, kneels on the dirty floor at Pidge’s feet, and swears, “On my honor as a knight, I’ll see you and your brother away from here to safety.”

She doesn’t look happy or even relieved like he expected; her brow furrows, a frown on her lips, and she asks, “What about you, Lance?”

“What about me?”

“What about…your reason for being where you are? If you’re caught helping me, won’t your family pay?”

Lance inhales sharply, caught off by her question and with renewed anxiety churning in his gut. But he forces a smile onto his face as he reassures her, “Let me worry about that, Pidge.”

She doesn’t seem convinced, her frown deepening until her eyes slip shut. She nods, her gaze steely when it falls back on him. “When do we leave?”

“Now.”

Lance helps Pidge into a spare jerkin and helmet he smuggled in before they depart her cell. He can’t help cradling her helmeted head and, despite his heart racing with trepidation, smiling as he pats the helmet and comments, “It’ll be just like when we sneaked off castle grounds to see the spring festival - which was your idea too, wasn’t it?”

“You got caned for that,” Pidge reminds him with a worried twist to her mouth, “and I was confined to the castle for a week.”

“Well, we’re both a little older and wiser now, aren’t we, my lady?” he tries teasing.

Pidge quirks an eyebrow at him. “Are we?” She pats his hand where it rests against her borrowed helmet. “Keep your promise, and maybe we’ll find out.”

Lance meets her sharp brown eyes and nods.

As they enter the tunnel leading back to the castle courtyard, he explains, “My friend Hunk is fetching your brother; we’ll meet them at the postern gate and slip out right as the sun sets.”

Escaping a dungeon full of disinterested and listless prisoners is easy enough, but his heart pounds anew as he and Pidge skirt the courtyard, away from the gazes of soldiers searching for the slightest hint of entertainment.

But apparently it’s their lucky night.

Their latest victim is a poor squire acting as a jester and showing off his juggling skills, shriveled up apples arcing over his head before he tosses them between his hands, but while the cheering soldiers watch they throw in other random objects:  another apple, a child’s boot, a ball…

The boy stumbles backwards with a yelp but holds, until a man tosses a dagger into the air. He falls over to the chorus of guffawing soldiers, but by then Lance and Pidge round a corner and are in sight of the gate.

They sag against the castle wall, Lance’s heart no less fast. “Y-you doing all right?” he wonders in a low voice.

Pidge shifts from foot to foot, looking eager to be off. “I’ll be fine once my brother and I are back on the other side of the trench.”

“Fair enough,” Lance says. He stands beside her, and together they peer towards the guarded gate.

“How are we getting through?” Pidge asks with a sideways glance at him.

Lance flashes her a smirk and says, “Well…being a knight has its privileges, so just keep quiet and follow my lead.”

“Then—”

Lance grabs her wrist, tugging her back before she can get too far. She shakes him off - he tries not to let on that it hurts how quickly she rejects his touch - and he tells her, “We’ll wait here for Hunk and your brother; it’ll attract less attention if we all leave together.”

Pidge’s smile is fleeting but no less authentic, and it doesn’t fail to make warmth bloom in his chest.

As the sun sets a smattering of torches are lit along the castle walls, streaks of light trailing men on patrol. The turrets on the outermost wall burn with their own fire, but the lengths between are dark.

Lance’s muscles only tense more the longer they wait. He tries to look relaxed, even greeting the soldiers and servants that pass, but beside him Pidge breathes shallowly, anxiously, her fingernails digging into his skin through his sleeve when she grips his wrist.

“Lance, are you sure—”

He rests a hand on her shoulder, swallowing his own trepidation, and reassures her, “They probably just got held up.”

But they don’t come, and it’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking for him or discovers Pidge gone.

And she’s _his_ priority, just like she was when they were still naive, carefree children.

Lance licks his lips, glancing at Pidge’s fingers toying with the laces on her borrowed jerkin and the strap of the helmet, at her furrowed brow betraying how worried she is. “Pidge,” he mutters, “we have to go.”

Her head snaps around, eyes wide and glinting in the torchlight. “But my brother and your friend—”

“They’re right behind us,” Lance says, desperately hoping he isn’t lying.

“Then we wait for them,” Pidge insists, her gaze steely. “I’m not going anywhere until I get what I came for.”

Lance struggles to rein in his panic, but it backfires as it pours out as frustration. He hisses, “If we don’t leave now and we’re caught, you’ll be a prisoner for the rest of your damn life, Pidge!”

Her eyes flash, anger written in every muscle in her face. “You _promised_ —”

“And I’m keeping as much of it as I can,” Lance retorts in a furious whisper, glaring down at her, “so I will carry you out of this castle if I have to!”

For a heartbeat he fears she’ll only argue more - and every second they stand here quarreling they risk drawing attention - when her glower doesn’t falter, but then her jaws snap shut with a click of her teeth.

But he’s not done.

Lance takes her sweaty hands in his, making sure she meets his eyes, and says, “Pidge, I swear by my own life that you _will_ see your brother again.”

Her shoulders obviously tremble, her eyes shining with tears, but her eyelids pinch shut as her spine stiffens and her gaze snaps back to his.

And she nods and says, “I’ll hold you to that. I just don’t want it to…cost your—a life.”

Despite the situation, a relieved smile pushes at his lips; Pidge trusting him again…in this moment it means everything.

He squeezes her hands before letting go and beckoning for her to follow him. His heart beats in his ears, but he struts like a knight on a mission, watching Pidge from the corner of his eye.

She shuffles along just behind him, following his lead. The helmet he scavenged for her is a little too big, the rim falling below her thick eyebrows, but all the better. Few men in Lotor’s army wear helmets that fit them anyway.

A guard lounging just under the wall before the postern gate stands at attention when they catch sight of them. He punches his dozing companion, leaning heavily into his pike, in the arm, and when they both straighten and throw up a sloppy salute that betrays their low birth and hasty recruitment, Lance recognizes it for the blessing it is.

He halts in front of them, hands clasped behind his back and Pidge beside him. “At ease, men,” he says in his “I’m more important than you and you should listen to me” voice.

(It’s the voice that Prince Lotor always uses.)

The guards exchange a startled, guilty glance before dropping their arms. “Sir, we were just—”

“Spare me your excuses!” Lance scoffs. He rests his hands on his hips, pinching himself slightly to distract from his nerves. “Slacking on the job? Don’t you know that an enemy spy was discovered in our midst?”

Pidge stiffens, but she remains blessedly silent as the men fumble with their weapons and helmets. “B-but we didn’t—”

“It may not have been on your watch,” Lance continues with a lazy roll of his eyes, “but perhaps the next one will be, and I’ll know exactly who to blame. Shall I take this transgression to Prince Lotor?”

Both guards sag, one clasping his hands together and pleading, “Oh, please don’t, Sir.”

“Then do your damn job!” When the men quail, Lance can’t help a slight stab of guilt; they’re only poor, pathetic conscripts that would’ve been killed anyway if they refused Zarkon’s call to arms.

But he has his mission, and they’re standing in their way.

“Now, I wish to go and inspect our nighttime trench defenses,” Lance lies. He plasters a sardonic grin onto his face and adds, “We can’t have the enemy crossing it by night, can we?”

“N-no, Sir.”

“Then my squire”—he gestures towards Pidge, trying not to cringe when she salutes with the wrong arm—”and I will take our leave of you, good men.”

“Uh…y-yes, sir,” one of the guards says, unlocking the gate and stepping aside.

He passes through, his heart skipping a beat when Pidge’s arm brushes his as she joins him on the outside of the wall. But he pushes that thought aside and, for good measure, jabs a menacing figure towards the guards, “And don’t think I won’t mention this to Prince Lotor when I return!”

“But Sir—”

Lance wrenches the gate shut by its grate, cutting them off before he turns to Pidge and nods.

Her eyes meet his before flicking away, expression unreadable.

She was always an open book to him, but now she feels even more distant than she did when he first encountered her in the dungeons.

At Pidge’s suggestion - because she has a better sense of stealth than he does - they remove their helmets and wrap them in Lance’s cloak to avoid any light glinting off the metal. He carries the bundle slung over his shoulder, trudging through the barren, scarred ground - Lotor burned the trees that once grew here to limit the besieging army’s ability to hide and to forage for supplies - barely illuminated by the light of a half-moon.

They travel in silence, Lance’s own heartbeat enough of a cacophony for his ears without the faint, muffled clinking of their helmets. His crossbow is heavy in his other hand, his quiver bouncing against his waist, and the night chilly with no sun to warm the earth.

He wants to break the disturbing, tense quiet - wants to speak with Pidge as easily as they did as children - so he licks his lips and—

“Would you really have…reported those two to Lotor?”

Lance jerks around to stare at Pidge, but her face is directed to the ground. “I…of course not,” he tells her. “Prince Lotor is a busy man”—he rolls his eyes, as if she can see it in the dark—”and doesn’t have time to bother with soldiers too lazy to do their jobs.”

“But—”

“I only made the threat because they’re afraid of Lotor,” Lance admits. “They fear him more than they fear getting killed in battle.” He laughs, unable to keep the bitterness from it.

“And what about you?” Pidge wonders. His skin prickles, at last feeling her gaze on him. “Are _you_ afraid of Lotor?”

A smile pushes at his lips, amused despite the bleak conversation. “Me? Fear Lotor?” He snorts before clipping his crossbow to his belt and unsheathing his knife. “I’ve met his father.” He holds the knife out to her, and when she just stares at the steel blade almost glowing in the dark, he shakes it. “Take it; you shouldn’t be out here unarmed.”

“You’re still with me,” Pidge observes.

“I promised I’d see you to safety,” Lance reminds her, confused.

“We’re not far from the bridge,” she tells him. “You can just leave me here and return to the castle while I go on alone.”

“So I can find out you’ve tried to rescue your brother and got yourself captured _again_?”

“Maybe if I know I have a friend inside…”

Lance’s words stick in his throat; will she judge him too harshly if he confesses his ulterior motives?

Pidge’s fingers wrap around his where he grips the hilt, warm and almost reassuring. “Lance,” she breathes, “you’re not just making some deal with my father and returning to beg Lotor’s forgiveness, are you?”

He sucks in a breath, startled by her question and…is that hope he hears in her voice? “I…do you think your father would hold my actions against me if I begged for _his_ forgiveness?”

(He can’t bring himself to ask if she’ll forgive him too.)

He can only just spot the curve of her lips when she smiles. “Of course he won’t,” she says. “He’ll understand.”

Lance exhales and, with his chest tight, murmurs, “Will you?”

“I…was too quick in my judgment of you,” she admits quietly. “You were protecting your family like I’m trying to protect mine. It just…” She sighs, face downcast. “It hurt thinking you’d fight mine - fight _me_ \- to do it.”

Lance swallows, his stomach flipping in a way that’s not totally unpleasant. His bundled cloak slips from his grasp as he cups Pidge’s smooth cheek, her eyes gleaming when they snap up to his. “I could never fight you, Pidge,” he tells her. “Fighting you would be like fighting my own—”

A light flashing beyond her head in the direction of the castle makes the words catch and his heart jump into his throat. It grows larger and more intense, and Lance realizes why a beat before he grabs Pidge’s hand, turns, and _runs_.

Lance is more grateful than ever to Lotor for razing the forest; it leaves their path clear of debris like sticks or tree roots so they only risk stumbling over their own feet. Pidge blessedly keeps pace with him, but she’s more quickly winded, her pants a terrible chorus in his ears.

His heart races in time with the rapid pounding of his feet. “The…bridge…” Lance gasps as they draw closer to the flaming torches - Pidge’s allies’ encampment - on the opposite side of the trench.

“H-how do…you know…it’s… _h_ —”

“Trust me!” Lance snaps, more harshly - more frenetically - than he means; he’ll apologize later, after she reunites with her father and the sound of hooves storming over the ground don’t blare louder and more dangerously than any war drum.

But the stampede of horses overtakes them, cutting them off from their path of escape and any chance of retreat.

Lance raises his hand to shield his eyes from the intensity of several flaming torches; spots dance across his vision, but his hand finds his crossbow as he adjusts to the shifting of light and shadows. He shoves Pidge behind him - ignoring her mumbled protest - although the awful dread tying his gut into knots tells him he shouldn’t even bother.

Not when they’re surrounded.

“I should have expected this,” a chilling and familiar voice announces. Prince Lotor sits atop his stately stallion, its white coat luminous in the moonlight. “I truly have no one to blame but myself.”

Lance bares his teeth, anger coiling his muscles. “I can agree with that,” he retorts.

Lotor’s gaze flits between him to Pidge just behind him. “I may have been naive enough to trust you wouldn’t run back to Duke Holt the instant you met your dear childhood sweetheart again, but I am not so naive to think you intended to escape without her brother.”

A sharp intake of breath in his ear is the only warning before Pidge’s fingers wrap around his arm, so tightly he expects to find bruises later.

(He hopes it’ll be the worst of either of their injuries.)

“So…?” Lance prompts; his pulse rushes past his ears, but he needs to learn what became of Hunk and Matt. If Lotor captured _them_ —

But he’s not interested in revealing anything just yet.

Lotor unsheathes his sword with a _snick_ of steel and commands, “Separate them.”

“What? N—Pidge!”

“L—”

He’s torn from her grasp faster than he can lash out at his assailant with all the coordination of a newborn lamb. Pidge fares no better, kicking and thrashing against the hold of a knight over twice as large as she is, coughing when all the commotion stirs dust up from the ground.

Lance’s fist barely brushes the face of one of the men handling him before his arms are wrenched behind his back. He winces at the strain on his muscles, growling as they force him to his knees in front of Lotor’s horse.

He tries to turn, his eyes wide to find where Pidge struggles against her own captor, but one of the men grabs and holds his head in place.

Lance trembles in their hold, but he can’t tell if it’s down to his fury or his fear.

“Now that I have you under control,” Prince Lotor says as mildly as if he’d just observed a sparring match between two squires, “I have some questions for you. How you answer will affect whether or not you and your lady will return to the castle in as few pieces as when you left…although I cannot guarantee you will stay that way.”

“I don’t know why you’re such a colossal ass, Your Highness,” Lance hisses through a bitter smirk, “although I suspect it has something to do with your—”

A hand strikes him across the face with enough force he bites the inside of his cheek and stars streak across his eyes, his skin burning and his head almost wrenched from the grip of the man holding it in place.

“Lance!” Pidge shrieks from somewhere behind him. “Let him go, you bastard! Let him—” An awful gasp of pain escapes her.

His blood runs cold when Ezor simpers, “Now, now, that’s not language befitting a lady.”

A fresh wave of anger washes over him, but Lance fails to stand with two large soldiers holding him down. “What the hell happened to leaving her unharmed?” he demands, shooting a glare at Lotor and hoping it’ll burn him to ash.

“I’m afraid Ezor often acts on her own initiative,” Lotor says with a nonchalant shrug, “but she knows not to damage her beyond repair. We do still need her to look pretty in a wedding gown after all.”

Lance grimaces, the image in his mind of Pidge, bruised and shackled and miserable, standing across from a cruel, sneering man in a stately cathedral twisting his gut.

“Now”—an ugly smirk curls Lotor’s lips—”I’ve already handled the guards foolish enough to allow a prisoner to escape through the postern gate, but I require the names of any co-conspirators in your plot.”

Does this mean…he doesn’t know about Hunk? Lance seizes on that hope - with Hunk free there’s still a chance for Pidge and Matt to escape Lotor’s clutches and return to their father - and lies, “I worked alone.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you, Sir?” Lotor wonders with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Well, no matter; as sloppy as this attempt was, I’ve no doubt you were the mastermind.”

Once Lance might’ve been insulted, but now he just spits, “And what does it say about you that you employ such sloppy knights, Your Highness?”

Prince Lotor looks utterly unbothered by his question when he says, “Knights such as you have their uses…although I am afraid you’ve outlived yours.”

Lance stares at him, slow to comprehend, but Pidge catches on fast.

“N-no!” she shouts. “Don’t—”

“Surely you of all people, my lady, know what happens to traitors like him,” Lotor says, his tone tinged with regret. “You have served me and my father well, Sir, but I am not without the mercy he lacks. I will not visit your fate upon your family, but I’m afraid a traitor’s hanging is still better than you deserve.”

Lance’s eyes widen, his heart dropping into his stomach as he finally understands.

But his chest still tightens, colored with his own regret. He reunited with Pidge only for them to part unwillingly again before he could fulfill his newest promise…

Lotor sighs dramatically, leaning back in his saddle, and adds, “And a public execution would only demoralize my troops. It seems the enemy will have to catch you unawares instead, Sir.”

“What—”

Pidge’s scream pierces his ears before the blade cuts his throat.

Blood soaks into his collar when he reaches for his neck - and when did the men holding him in place let him go? He coughs, red fluid shining in the torchlight and intense on the dusty brown soil, blankly staring at the drops.

And still Pidge screams his name.

This time the thundering of hooves - is it his chariot to the afterlife? - and the pounding of his heart in his ears almost drown out her voice, but he turns to her with a smile on his lips and a reassurance on the tip of his tongue.

“P-P-P—”

Black spots crowd his vision, but he reaches for her with the last of his strength.

Her hand…small and burning hot around his fingers.

The clashing of metal and yelling of men and neighing of horses…when he said he wanted the glory of dying in battle…

He was just a foolish boy.

* * *

Lance splashes through a creek swollen with spring runoff, kicking up water that scatters light and rainbows in all directions. It’s cold, spreading goosebumps across his skin, where it brushes his upper thighs under his breeches, but he only spares the sensation a shiver.

He grins, delighted by a rich blue sky and the budding growth on the tree branches that shield him from the worst of the sunlight, and bends over to fish a smooth gray stone from the creek bed. He tosses it between his hands and glances over his shoulder to find Pidge finally caught up to him, doubled over and gasping for breath on the grassy bank.

“Y-you know I…can’t run as…fast as…you, Lance,” she accuses with an arm clutching at her stomach.

Lance shrugs and says cheerfully, “Maybe not, but you know I’m always behind you anyway.”

“Are you, Lance?” Pidge straightens…but she doesn’t bear the face he expected.

A chill that has little to do with the creek travels up Lance’s spine, filling him with foreboding. “Pidge?”

The adult Pidge - beautiful with her slightly round face and clever brown eyes - stares back at him, gaze full of reproach. “Why won’t you wake up then?”

“I—”

“Come on, Lance,” she says, her brow furrowing and nose wrinkling. “Wake up.”

“I am awake,” Lance tells her, pointing at his face.

Pidge shakes her head, face full of worry he wants so badly to wipe away, but when he reaches for her to drag her into the creek with him his fingers pass through her hands.

“Wake up,” she insists, her voice softer this time. “Don’t leave me again.”

“But I’d never—”

But he did…didn’t he?

Lance’s eyes widen as the memories return. He falls to his knees with a splash, heedless of the stones in the creek bed digging into his skin, and breathes, “Forgive me.” Tears sting his eyes when he again fails to grasp Pidge’s hands. “I’m sorry, I—”

“I’ll only forgive you if you wake up,” she tells him, “so just—”

“—wake up.”

Lance jerks up with a gasp as if he’s just surfaced from underwater. His heart races, his breath short, his throat stinging and his limbs heavy as he struggles to sit up.

“Sir Lance!” A figure crouches beside him, and strong hands push at his shoulders. “You need to lie back and steady your breathing.”

But he can’t take in enough air. He doesn’t know where he is - he’s in a dark, enclosed tent lying on a bedroll - and he’s _parched_.

And Pidge—

“W-where’s P—Lady Katie?” he demands of the black-haired man with the white forelock hovering over him. “Sh—her father needs to—”

“She’s well,” the man quickly tells him, the smile he flashes Lance reassuring, “thanks to you, Sir.”

“She—”

“She will be pleased to hear you’ve finally awoken,” the man says. “It’s late, but I will send for her. She keeps strange hours even in the best of times, but she’s scarcely slept while you convalesced.”

Lance leans back, somewhat satisfied with that answer, though he still longs to lay eyes on Pidge and see for himself that she’s safe and— “Wait,” he says, raising an eyebrow at the man, “what happened? Where am I? And who the hell are you?”

His mother would scold him for his tactlessness, but Lance doesn’t care at the moment even if he has the bearing of a nobleman and the diction of someone of far higher birth than him.

(Unless he’s Altean; he’s never met an Altean - including Prince Lotor - that didn’t speak like a scholar of the ancient and arcane.)

The man, to his surprise, laughs. “You are in a tent in Duke Holt’s camp, Sir Lance,” he tells him. “Sir Matt alerted us to your likely presence beyond the trench, and we came upon you and Lady Katie after Prince Lotor captured you.”

Lance stares at him, his mind still foggy from his ordeal. “Sir—wait, did you say _Matt_?”

“Yes,” the man says. “A companion of yours named Hunk freed him. He even claimed it was your idea.”

A pleased smile rises to Lance’s face, and he sighs as he leans back against his pillow. “He escaped,” he says. “I kept that promise to Pidge.” But his gaze flits back to the man. “And you’re—”

“I’m Marquess Shirogane,” he says as simply as one declaring the sky blue. “I am a vassal to Duke Holt, same as you.”

But Lance barely hears that last part for the shock gripping him. His jaw drops, and he raises a hand to point. “ _You_? I’ve heard of you and your fights and your daring escape from Zarkon himself!” _You_ _’re my greatest hero,_ he only just keeps himself from saying.

The man - Marquess Shirogane - smiles, though there’s a touch less mirth to it this time. “My reputation precedes me. Now”—he stands, hunched over while the top of his head brushes the tent’s canvas ceiling—”if you’ll excuse me, your lady will be eager for news of your waking.”

“Oh, y—wait, she’s not my—”

But the tent flap drops behind the Marquess before Lance can complete his protest.

(It’s just as well he didn’t linger to witness his burning face.)

Lance lies back on his bedroll, slinging an arm over his face and sighing. He taps his fingers against his abdomen - wait, is he _naked_ under the blanket? - before feeling at the thick bandages wrapped around his neck.

How long was he unconscious? And what happened to _Lotor_?

Lance fidgets as his gut twists, worried. Lotor promised he wouldn’t seek retribution against his family, but what if he changed his mind after Matt’s escape - his _escape_! - and Duke Holt’s attack and recovery of Pidge?

Before he can dwell on it too much, the tent flap lifts without announcement. Lance glances up, and when his eyes land on Pidge his breath catches.

It’s not that she’s dressed as befits her station - her gown, while elegant, is definitely designed for travel - but that her eyes, narrowed and under a brow heavy with worry, soften when they find him.

He sits up - never mind the stiffness in his back from lying down for so long - as she gracelessly falls to her knees beside him. He smiles, a lump stuck in his poor, lacerated throat, when her hands cup his cheeks, so carefully he wonders if she doesn’t quite believe he’s here.

His hand covers hers and he says in an embarrassingly hoarse voice, “I-it’s almost like you thought I wouldn’t survive a shallow cut, Pidge.”

She scowls and lightly smacks his shoulder. “That woman’s blade was poisoned, you fool,” she scolds, “and you lost so much blood.” Her breath, a warm and wonderful sensation he missed, stutters against his cheek before her eyes slip shut and she whispers, “You nearly—if Matt was even a minute later with his charge you might not have survived, Lance.”

“I still would’ve kept my promise,” Lance reminds her with a smirk.

Pidge’s hands drop into her lap - he gives into the urge to take one of them in his - as she rolls her eyes and grumbles, “Then perhaps I should’ve demanded another promise from you.”

He’s half-distracted marveling at how neatly her slim fingers fit between his when he wonders, “Another promise?”

Pidge nods, her hand falling on his shoulder so her gaze captures his, and says, “Swear that you will be safe.”

Lance’s jaw drops. “W-we’re in the middle of a war!” he exclaims. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

Her lips press together, but she admits, “I don’t know, but I trust you enough to know that you’ll try.”

For some reason, her words - and the concern written all over her face - send heat shooting through his chest, and he can’t help smiling. He strokes her cheek with a finger and promises, “I will stay safe as long as I can keep _you_ safe, my lady.” In a fit of courage - or perhaps pique - he lifts her hand to his face and brushes his lips over her knuckles.

And then he recalls his state of undress, shielding blanket be damned.

Heat rushes to his face, but he manages to keep his composure as he finally - if reluctantly - lets go of her hand and coughs. “A-and that’s how you greet a lady.

Pink colors Pidge’s cheeks as her eyes dart down to his bare chest then away again. She scoffs, “You’ve changed even less than I thought.”

Lance laughs, trying to dispel some of his embarrassment, and Pidge’s answering smile - is it even a hint shy? - makes her teasing at his expense worthwhile.

“Are you thirsty?” she wonders, and for the first time he notices the water skin slung over her shoulder. She hands it over when he nods.

Lance eagerly opens it and upends it into his mouth, heedless of the drops that miss and slide down his chin to soak into his bandages. The water sliding down his throat is almost lukewarm, but it’s the most refreshing drink he’s ever tasted.

He lowers the skin and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning at a peculiarly red-faced Pidge before saying, “Thank you. The thirst was going to kill me if a poisoned blade didn’t.”

She bites her lip as she rolls her eyes, the gesture so familiar - _she_ _’s fighting a smile_ \- his grin widens. While he takes a few more sips, she reassures him, “You’ll be all right. The physician said you now just need rest and to keep your wound clean.”

“And…” His cheer evaporates when he drains the water skin of every drop. Lance sets it aside and swallows, bracing himself to ask his most pressing question. “What about Lotor and…my family?”

The tent flap lifts before Pidge can reply, and they both jump at the interruption. Absurdly Lance lifts his blanket up to cover more of his chest, and he only stiffens when Duke Holt himself enters.

All thought flees his head as he lays eyes on the man he was forced to betray. Guilt churns in his stomach, weighing down his heart, but when he meets his gaze he finds no reproach in a face more lined than he remembers it.

“Sir Lance,” he says, sitting beside Pidge and patting Lance’s hand, “I’m so glad to see you awake and almost to your usual color.” He grins, glancing from him to a still pink-cheeked Pidge, and asks, “Dare I say you’re both looking darker than usual?”

Lance quirks an eyebrow; is that the Duke’s odd way of wondering if he’s blushing?

(It only warms his face more.)

“Father,” Pidge says in a slightly strangled voice, “shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Duke Holt snorts in a very ungentlemanly way and retorts, “Shouldn’t _you_ , young lady?”

She glances away, shoulders hunched, and mumbles, “I was waiting for Lance to wake up…”

“For a whole week?” says the Duke.

 _A week?_ God, what all did Lance miss while he slept for a _week_?

The Duke rests his hand on his daughter’s back and sighs. “I know you’ve missed him, but it does none of us any good when you’re not rested. Now”—he angles his head towards Lance—”you’ve seen him awake, so _go_.”

“But—”

“Sleep!” Duke Holt commands. “Or do I need to call Shiro to carry you to your tent?”

Pidge pinches her lips together but, chagrined, she shakes her head. “I can walk, Father,” she says, but before she stands she rests a hand on Lance’s and squeezes gently.

She smiles when he meets her eyes and shapes with her lips, _“I’ll return in the morning.”_

An odd little thrill fills Lance, already looking forward to it even while his chest tightens at her departure.

(Maybe one day, he dares to hope, they won’t have to bid each other goodbye by night.)

But she leaves him alone with the one man Lance feared facing more than her.

So he tries to joke, “You know, Your Grace, I threatened to carry her out of the castle too.”

But Duke Holt doesn’t seem to hear him. Instead he crosses his arms and whistles almost appreciatively. “Look at you,” he says, “all grown up - I think you’re taller than me now - and with a knighthood, no less.”

Lance’s heart jumps into his throat, and he’s speaking before he can stop himself:  “Your Grace, I’m so sorry I—”

“Oh, don’t look like that, Lance,” Duke Holt says with a sigh. “You rescued my children. Lotor, however, slipped through our grasp when we recovered you and Katie,” he admits. “He abandoned the castle, apparently because he realized he had nothing to bargain with once my children returned to me, and we took it without a struggle. Unfortunately”—the Duke smiles, a teasing glint in his eyes—”it was too dangerous to move you while you recovered; otherwise you would’ve woken in a more comfortable bed.”

Lance fidgets in his bedroll, less concerned with his injury and nakedness and more with…what happens next, but he can’t yet find the courage to wonder.

Duke Holt rests a hand on his shoulder, and when he looks up to meet his eyes, he says, “You’re worthy of your title, Sir Lance; it suits you, and I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”

“Proud of what?” Lance scoffs before he can stop himself. “I-I’m not—”

“You are,” he insists. “I can tell you’ve grown into it whether you realize it or not.” When Lance’s startled gaze snaps to his face, he continues, “Katie explained everything to me - though I confess I knew some; God, it’s been years, but what Zarkon’s done to your family…” He shakes his head, lip curling in disgust. “I hate war. I miss having the time for my experiments and the funds to spare for my wife’s projects, and I wish it didn’t taint my daughter’s childhood and your friendship with her so, but more than anything I hate that my family wasn’t there for yours when you needed us.”

Lance stares, struck speechless in bewilderment as the Duke bows his head to him, a mere knight who could barely afford his chain mail and the son of the weakest of vassals. “Your Grace, you—”

“Forgive me,” Duke Holt says, “and know that I will try my damnedest to make it right.”

The words of reassurance - a promise in the Duke’s own voice - are so much of what he wanted from this dangerous escapade, but he can’t relax yet. He toys with a loose thread in his bedroll and clears his throat. “I’d pledged to Lotor, and my family…”

“Sir Keith departed with a small but skilled force to bolster your family against Zarkon the night we recovered you and Katie, and in the morning Marquess Shirogane will depart to join them.” Then Duke Holt promises, “And you, Sir Lance, are more than welcome to renounce your ties to Lotor and join with mine.”

Lance swallows around the lump stuck in his throat, blinking surprising and relieved tears from his eyes. A smile pushes at his lips as a burden falls from his shoulders, leaving him lighter than he’s felt in _years_.

“Thank you,” he says, sounding choked up even to his ears. He flings his arms around the Duke, overwhelmed with gratitude. “ _Thank you_.”

Duke Holt stiffens for the briefest of heartbeats before he returns Lance’s embrace with one as warm as his own father’s. “You’re very welcome,” he says, “son."

 

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts??
> 
> hope you enjoyed <3


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